


Guns in My Head & They Won't Go

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Episode Tag, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds an unexpected voice of reason in the wake of Survivor Series 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guns in My Head & They Won't Go

He's going to wreck Hunter, or Sheamus, or whatever new lackeys he finds in the office the Authority's claimed for the night. Spill their champagne, make them bleed, rub their noses in the puddle it leaves behind.

Nasty intentions must be written all over him, because Ziggler and O'Neil and two-thirds of the New Day and a whole cluster of PAs all get out of his way as he winds through the concrete hallways, one fist already unwrapped, shreds of his shirt still hanging useless from his belt.

Everyone's bright enough to stay out of his path.  That, or they just don't give a shit what kind of trouble he's making as long as it isn't for them.  Either way, he doesn't have to deal with anyone until he rounds a corner and has to draw up short to keep from knocking Brie Bella flat. Doesn't know and doesn't really care what she's doing, standing in the middle of the hallway in her sparkly dress and shoes that make her almost as tall as he is. He snarls and moves wide to go around her, but her hand shoots out to snag his arm, her grip stronger than he would have given her credit for, nails digging in a little.

"Do you really think I'm the kind of girl who'd be hanging around here," she gestures at the cold, cluttered stretch of hallway around them, "unless I was waiting for you?"

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he says with a sneer, and shakes her hand off to give an impatient mockery of a formal bow.

"I've been where you are," she says, a little softer than before. The way she shrugs, like even she's not really sure why she's bothering with him except for this one thing they have in common, makes her seem less frosty than usual as she goes on. "Nothing good is waiting at the end of this hall. Not for either of you."

He bounces in place a little, adrenaline souring his stomach, putting unwelcome shakes in his fingers. Kane's otherwise occupied these days; he might still have a better shot at Hunter than Bryan had.

She shakes her head, like she knows what he's thinking. Like it's not just Roman he's totally fucking transparent to these days.

He dances a couple of steps to the left and drives a fist - the one that's still taped, though that's a rare stroke of luck more than any kind of good thinking on his part - into the block wall, once, twice, a couple more times for good measure. If she's surprised or startled or weirded-out or any of the other ways he tends to make people feel, it doesn't show on her face.

"Go find your guy," she says. "Take care of him tonight."

She leaves unsaid that there's no taking care of the Authority. Not tonight and never alone. She's right, and that pisses him off, too. He tries to hang on that anger. The urge to pound the COO's face in is familiar, easy to sit with in a way that he never wants the helplessness of Roman's face tucked tight against his own neck, hot and damp with fresh tears, to become.

He knows when he's fighting a losing battle. That doesn't always stop him, but it will tonight. If only because he can't make Roman come and bail him out of another county lockup at the end of a night like this.

Hell, he'd already known Roman was already going to worry over him: light fingers against fresh bruises, pressing ice to one shoulder and kisses to the other, apologizing when he should be celebrating. He'd been ready to take Roman in hand, make sure he soaked up every ounce of good out of the first hours of his reign.

And now, any minute, Roman will be hitting the locker room, beat and beaten, and - because Dean's here on this fool's errand instead of where he's belonged this whole time - alone.

He snaps off a rapid-fire string of not-remotely-PG words and jerks a hand through his hair.

"You don't last long here if you're really as dumb as commentary says." The way she smiles makes him think she's talking about both of them at once. "I think we're done here." She makes a shooing gesture back in the direction he'd come from, once more a queen bee dismissing him from her presence.

He plays the part, too, tipping another mostly-insincere courtly bow her way before he wheels away and retraces his steps, unwinding his remaining tape as he stomps back through the halls.

Luck, for all that it's fucking jilted Roman tonight, seems to be with him again, as he meets his brother coming out of the trainers' room. He's shed his vest somewhere along the line, and his hair is pulled into a loose, sloppy bun, though Dean can see, where his head is bowed, a square of red confetti still clinging to the damp strands.

"There's my boy," he says, an echo of earlier, better times tonight, and Roman's face snaps up, his smile flickering and pained, but still softer than anything Dean's used to thinking of as being just for him.

He opens his arms, and Roman falls into him, easy as anything. It's not the way he wanted to hold him tonight, but they're together, and it's a start. Tomorrow morning'll be soon enough to get to work finishing off the Authority and whoever else makes the mistake of stepping into their path.


End file.
